"Goliath" by Breanna Tucker

It's always weird when someone has the exact same schedule as you at school. It's like you've been selected at random to be best friends. I didn't really like this guy Johnny, but since we had all the same classes, we would see each other everywhere, and one day during third period I noticed him kept peeking over from behind his textbook.

"What?" I hissed.

"This is boring."

"Duh."

"Well," he said, "let's do something."

"Do what?" I questioned.

He had a look on his face like he was wondering if he should say what he was going to say. He glanced at Mrs. Richardson. "Let's ditch."

I considered it. Here we were, ambitious teenagers sitting in a pointless class, knowing that absolutely nothing significant was going to happen for the rest of the day. Probably the rest of the week.

"Okay." I smiled and I saw the excitement overtake him.

"Follow me." He got up out of his seat and walked out the door. I obediently followed, wondering why no one noticed.

* * *

Apparently his plan was to go to Magic Mountain, which he had two tickets to. It being a weekday, we got onto every ride in less than 10 minutes. We spun in teacups until we were nauseated; we ate disgusting, over-priced chicken strips; and we got soaking wet on a ride called "Tidal Wave." We thoroughly enjoyed ourselves -- and he even won a pink teddy bear for me. Actually he bribed the worker, but I'll say he won for his sake.

The sun had gone down, so we decided to go on just one more ride before completing our perfect, well-spent day.

"Which one?" he asked.

"Hmm..." I thought about it. "How about Goliath?"

Goliath had the steepest incline of any coaster in the United States.

No one was in line, so we picked the two front seats. As the coaster cranked up into the night sky, we saw the city light up below us.

"Today was fun," he said and smiled.

"Yeah," I replied pleasantly. When we reached the peak of the coaster, we heard a loud thump below us and our cart shifted to the right. Curious, I peeked over the side. The two front wheels were not aligned with the track.

Gravity started to bring us downward.

From the Feb. 2012 workshop on "The Cliffhanger" in Glendale, CA.

"Conflagration" by Caleb Zachary

Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday Grant had woken me up by kicking the door of my room in as he passed by in the hallway. Thursday he kicked it open and tossed a bag of CliffsNotes onto my bed, aiming as close to my head as he could without looking like he was trying. Friday Dad left early, so Grant celebrated his freedom to torture me by blasting Rebecca Black from the kitchen while he had his cereal.

Grant is my cousin, older than me by one grade, who moved in with my father and I for an indefinite period of time. He and Dad got along famously, trading witticisms and abstract trivia while also taking every opportunity to goad me, knowing I was born to be a comedy straight man.

While I've been going to a small private school since middle school, Grant enrolled at the local public school and he hates it with a passion. He had another week before his school got out, while I had started summer break two weeks before, thus his surplus resentment. I crawled out of bed and pulled on a shirt, bumping my way drearily into the kitchen to pull the plug on the "Friday"-blasting speaker. Grant didn't even look up, only pushed the cereal box toward me and mumbled a mouthful--something about clean spoons.

I wandered toward the wide window and yanked open the curtain, feeling a bit vengeful. I heard Grant groan as light flooded in onto the gleaming tile counters. I gazed out over the residential high-rises a few blocks away right above Grant's school, mirror images of the ones we lived in. (My father joked that if we lived in one of the other high-rises, Grant could rappel from our balcony onto the baseball field.) I left the curtain open, even though the brightness made me squint.

"What time do you get out of school today?" I asked.

"2:30," he said, "but I'll be staying a bit late to talk to Lena."

Lena was Grant's math teacher, who he had developed what I considered an unhealthy crush upon.

"If I'm not too busy partying it up, do you want me to meet you when you're done?" I asked.

"I'll be partying with Lena," Grant mumbled, knowing that I had absolutely no plans. "Meet me at Starbucks at three."

I grunted affirmation, trying to calculate just how late he'd be, and headed back to my room. While Grant might have to wake up at 7:15, I could sleep as late as I wanted.

* * *

I thought I was still dreaming when I rolled out of bed to the screeching, until the room shook and my eardrums popped, filling my ears with a dull whining sound. My head throbbed, and as I stood up the building shook again and glass broke somewhere in the apartment. My clock, jolted from its wall mounting to crack on the floor, was frozen at 11:28.

I stepped over the shards of plastic into the hallway, where paintings and pictures scattered the floor. The kitchen was where the destruction began. The window was shattered across the white tile, glittering in the sunlight that still streamed through the frame. Pots and pans littered the counter after falling from the hanging rack.

A cloud of smoke was rising to shroud my view from the window, but the remnants of the adjacent high rises were still barely visible, even as they crumbled to the ground across the school below. 

Across the road, buried in the third floor of the closest high rise, hung a wrecked passenger airplane.

"An Unusual Lunch" by Estefania Zavala

The screeches woke her up as they did every morning. They were screams of purest fear and abject terror. Her little brother, Henry, was having a tough time adjusting to kindergarten.

She scurried out of bed, hoping against hope that a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios swimming with orange juice (his favorite) would quiet him down. For once, the endeavor was successful and she helped her harried mother mangle him into a car seat.

She arrived at school early, tripping on the bike rack -- as she always did. The cut on her knee re-opened and she cursed/limped all the way to the office where she obtained a band-aid that was very grudgingly given.

She thought about the stinginess of the office aides and composed cutting speeches aimed at them for the rest of the morning.

For lunch, she chose the same kind of grilled cheese sandwich as always and thought the same kind of thoughts as always: she considered dyeing her hair; she dismissed the idea.

There was a silence within the cafeteria. The lull caused her to look up.

It was the most bizarre thing she had ever seen. It was some sort of a man, as near as she could tell. He was walking on his hind legs, at least. He appeared to have the head of a cat -- and the body of a bear. But he was a soft shade of purple. He had two giant black discs for eyes and no other facial features.

As extraordinary as this creature, however, was what he cradled in his giant lavender arms. Her little brother, Henry.

"Hello, Natalie," said her brother with imperial coolness not usually displayed by five-year-olds.

"Hello," she replied faintly.

"Please inform Mother that I won't be home for dinner tonight," he said. Natalie wondered where his lisp had gone. "I won't be home for quite some time, in fact. I enjoy your company and Honey Nut Cheerios but I have found the indignities of kindergarten too foul to suffer."

She nodded -- as though this was the sort of thing her brother said all the time. The monster's black discs glittered curiously.

"Well, I'm afraid Mr. Garrison and I must be leaving," Henry said. She realized "Mr. Garrison" was the monster clutching him. With a swift command from her brother, he began to lumber out of the cafeteria.

Her brother turned back to see all the panicking people and sent her a look of utmost pity. "I'll come back for you when I can," he said.

"Wanted"

by Molly Buffington

The town was just like every other in the West: tumbleweeds, a saloon with a couple drunks staggering around a barmaid, a poorly guarded bank, horses, a sheriff nailing "Wanted" signs to a board, women in bonnets buying groceries... the works. None of them saw what the man surveying the town did.

Women turned their heads and batted their eyelashes at him. He seemed to walk aimlessly, just a clean-cut cowhand, still retaining some youth, with swaying light red hair and icy blue eyes. The sheriff nodded his head to him.

"Howdy, stranger."

The man, a little surprised, tipped his stetson. "Howdy."

He tried to walk on but the sheriff, an older man with gristle-y, grey-tinged hair, grabbed his arm and pulled him back.

"You new to the Lone Star State?"

"Yes sir," the man lied.

"I'm Lawrence, local law enforcement."

"Joseph Robertson, sir. Here on business with my family's farm. Be gone in a few days."

That seemed to satisfy the sheriff. "Enjoy your stay, son," he said, smacking Joseph a little too hard on the back as he walked on.

Joseph wiped his brow. There was no way this Lawrence could have seen through him. No, it just wasn't possible. He continued walking and reached the board with the "Wanted" signs.

"Fast Jack," a man in his mid-40s with jet black hair and a gold tooth. Wanted for battery and defying law enforcement, $50 reward.

"Quick-Draw Stevens," white-blond with a crooked nose, train robbery and horse thieving. $150 reward.

And how could he not notice? "Billy The Kid," a cocky choice for an alias, brown-haired, baby-faced, wanted from the Grand Canyon to the Mississippi for everything from cattle rustling to armed robbery to murder. $500 reward, dead or alive.

Joseph's eyes grew wide at the last charge. "I didn't commit murder," he mumbled.

The town looked like a good enough place to settle down. He had money, freedom, power. A great deal of power. He would always have that.

He looked behind his shoulder to see if anyone spotted him staring at the posters and then shook off the fear, swaggering over to the saloon. He subconsciously checked his gun: still there, still loaded. He pushed the door and glanced around. Friendly barmaid, a few poker games, several ladies dolled up for business. He nodded to himself. He liked it here.

He sat at the bar and stared at himself in the mirror. Over his ear, a tuft of his hair was brown instead of red. How had he missed that? He concentrated, digging deep into his guts and willing himself to change. Shifting was never easy, always painful. Anyone passing by would think he had terrible indigestion. It took a good 30 seconds of focusing and chanting under his breath. But when he looked up his hair was all red, his eyes were all blue, and he looked nothing like the man in the poster.

"The Dried Tomato"

Vaqueros in Brooklyn, NY

by Angela Pailevanian

Six in the morning, Ruben woke up for his shift at The Dried Tomato, a sandwich shop in the Lower East Side. Ate breakfast, brushed his teeth, put on the weird-looking hat, and off he went to ride the subway to work.

"Ruben, you're late!" Alice said. She was like the veteran of the place. Eighty years old and still working. With at least 20 grandchildren.

Ruben apologized and ran into the back to get his apron. Conversation continued amongst the workers.

"Hey Riley! Have you caught the kid that threw a baseball through your window?"

"No! I can't even fix it, I'm two months behind on rent. I swear that kid's gonna get a beating when I find out who it is!"

It was noon. People were pouring in. The orders were accumultaing quickly.

"I want a turkey bacon sandwich, hold the mayo."

"I want a chicken sandwich on wheat bread, and fries on the side."

"I want a large coke, with a bacon sandwich, no tomatoes though."

Around 2pm, a boy walked in. He had on a Led Zeppelin shirt. Green eyes. Dark skin. Looked like he was ready to kill somebody.

"Welcome, what do you want to eat?" Ruben asked.

"You want to know what I want? I want to know why my father left. But you can't tell me that, can you? Nobody can. Not even my momma. Now she's three months behind rent, he aint paying a dime and we're gonna get evicted."

"Oh. Well I'm--"

"You have any idea what it's like to grow up without a dad? Watchin' my momma struggle every day, not comign home. She's got five kids. Six including me. I'm the youngest."

"How long has he been gone?" Ruben asked.

"Oh, he was gone before I was even born. Momma said she met him at a bar out in Buswick years ago."

"What's your momma's name, son?"

"Ayleen."

Could it be? The Ayleen he met in Vaqueros 15 years ago? The boy had Ruben's eyes, Ruben's nose, Ruben's slick straight hair. But she never told him anything, never called him. They broke up just as soon as they had gotten together.

Ruben stayed silent for a moment. Then he said: "Man, if I found my father now, he gon' wish he never left my momma."

Ruben shook his head and tried to stay focused on the food: "What do you want to eat, son?"